


With the Grace of Mary, the Bravery of John

by brokenlittleboy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, British Men of Letters, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s12e01 Keep Calm and Carry On, F/M, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sam Winchester, Men of Letters Bunker, Post Episode: s12e01 Keep Calm and Carry On, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Mary Winchester, Trans Female Character, Trans Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 19:28:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8297554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenlittleboy/pseuds/brokenlittleboy
Summary: Post 12.01. Dean, Mary, and Cas come to Sam's rescue from the brutal torture done by the British Men of Letters. There's a bit of another problem, too--Dean didn't want to out Sam without her permission, and he wishes Mary's first interaction with her daughter didn't have to be quite so bloody. A H/C Transwoman Sam fic.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write more of this (maybe I will), so for context: Sam started transitioning when she was twenty at Stanford with the support of Jess. Despite a few bumps in the road (major understatement), she's been able to continue transitioning since then, so she passes. Dean is the the most supportive older brother ever. Also, they may be a bit incesty together, though there's nothing explicit or sexual in this fic.
> 
> Enjoy <3

Dean feels like chickenshit. 

He doesn't know why he doesn't bring it up, why he doesn't mention it. It's not like he thinks Mary'll be upset or take it badly--and yeah, okay, she grew up in another era, sure, but she's smart, she's loving. Maybe it'll take a bit- Dean was notoriously slow on the uptake- but she'll come around. He knows she will.

Or maybe it's just that it's Sam's information to impart, isn't it? Who would Dean be to out Sam without permission? Shouldn't she be the one to do it? Dean doesn't have her blessing. Dean doesn't want to fuck it up.

So he says nothing. When he mentions Sam, he halts and stutters, awkwardly fumbling for ways to talk about his baby sister in a way that does not deal with pronouns at all. Sam this, Sam that. Mary hasn't noticed. Or if she has, she's quite tactful about letting that particular elephant settle among them in the room for the moment. 

So Dean's got a lot on his mind. With their line of work, the cogs never really do stop turning, but this has got to take the cake. He's wondering how Mom will fit into their lives, how she's doing, how she'll get along with Sam, how Sam is, where Sam is, if Sam is hurting too badly, if her captors are gonna become a bigger problem, and on and on and fucking on. Seriously. It seems like every time he comes to a stopping point about one problem, figures out a temporary solution, then something about one of the other problems flares up. He's a bit exhausted at this point. 

But there's still enough in him to find Sam, kick the ass of those despicable motherfuckers holding her, and get Sam home. He always has enough in him for that, damn it. 

He's grateful Cas hasn't commented on the thing with Sam and Mom. He seems to tacitly understand that gender is still a bit of a fuckity thing for human beings and this issue should be handled carefully and conscientiously. Or whatever. 

Everyone's in their own bubble. Mary's in the back seat, looking out the window, doing that pinched-up thing with her nose and brow that Sam does and it tugs at a place right in the center of Dean's chest to see where Sam gets it from. He knows how Mary feels about their lives, and she's obviously worried for her second child, her bright-eyed child. It's late enough at night that she must be far, far down the rabbit hole of her own thoughts, and Dean won't bother her there. Cas seems far away, too, and who knows what equations his angelic wavelength of a self is running through right now. 

So Dean drives. 

It's Missouri on their radar. Last place the Woman of Letter's phone pinged. The particular city is not too far from Lebanon, but even with Dean taking the speed limit as a mere suggestion, it'll take them a couple of hours. There are still ages left to be spent with his foot on the pedal, his hands on the smooth leather around the wheel, and his heart out in the unknown with Sam, beating with empathetic love and concern.

He's heard a few theories here and there that he and Sam are connected beyond the usual deal between any typical two human beings. He's accepted they're soulmates of one kind or another, maybe multiples at once. He can see where the ideas come from, knows they have merit. Usually, he doesn't think on it too deeply. Right now, however, his soul aches. He burns for Sam in a way no one else will ever see. He can't feel her thoughts or register her location or anything kickass like that, but something inside him harmonizes. She is in pain. He knows it. He knows it not from the facts presented before his eyes or the evidence they've been slowly building up. No, he knows it because he knows it. It's how the Winchesters operate, on a wavelength unto themselves. On an isle, alone, together. 

Her mind and her body are in equal distress. That is the sense that Dean gets. And it makes fucking sense, doesn't it? For one thing, Dean doesn't know what these people are doing to her. Whatever it is, it shouldn't be underestimated. Their enemies are formidable. That much is obvious. But Dean's also come to the slow realization that to Sam, Dean is for all intents and purposes dead. Completely blown the fuck up and gone. With previous deaths, there was a loophole, a painful, soul-stealing exit strategy, but here? 

Sam hasn't had time to process or research or even take a blade to her own skin. She's been tossed through the wringer's wringer and she must think she is alone.

But Dean hopes to god the link is established firmly in both directions. He hopes that she knows she felt nothing when Dean died, that her soul is still tangled up with his. That couldn't be possible if he were dead. He hopes to god she has some shred of stupid, outrageous hope, some childlike naivete left within her somewhere.

Sam grew up too fast, and Dean protected her innocence like the colors of a beautiful leaf already fallen from the tree, but it was no use. Everything was taken from her.

Dean prays to god, honestly prays. He prays that he won't have to look on the broken shell of a little sister who has given up. He has expected it in the past, but Sam always kicks back. Sam always has a tooth left to bite with, a heart left to love with.

Please let it be the same this time.

The Missouri state line arrives with little acknowledgement from their rag-tag group of rescuers, even after Dean announces the presence of the welcome center in a low tone. They all share the unique silence that comes with the last leg of a road trip made in the little hours of the morning. It seems a bit mundane, considering this specific road trip is a revenge trip that will most likely end in murder, but he supposes whatever deity reigns over liminal spaces like this doesn't make the distinction between homecoming weekend and Sam's rescue party.

Dean drives like he breathes. He hardly registers the lines on the pavement or the mile markers lit up by Baby's headlights. Not many other drivers are out right now, so the red tail lights ahead of him are few and far between. The deeper into Missouri they go, the more Spanish moss reaches out of the darkness like twisted-up goliaths. The more ponds they pass, the more urgent the billboards get. Apparently they're all going to hell. It's not front-page news, really.

The city Sam's in (please let her be there, please) gets closer and closer on the highway signs, the miles ticking down as the clock ticks forward, as the radio moves from song to song. It's a thousand different rhythms at once, a million heartbeats of life and pulse and time, and Dean feels attuned to it. He feels each moment away from Sam keenly, like each second they lose is a limb or a shred of hope for her.

It is unacceptable to be late. He won't be late. They won't. Mary will get to meet her daughter for the first time. If Dean is willing to go to the ends of the universe for one (more) fucking thing, it's this.

He takes the next exit and everyone takes a collective breath in preparation. He looks out the passenger window before making a turn, watching the tense line of Cas's shoulders. He sneaks a quick look at his mother and sees her eyes wide and red-rimmed. She's alert, like a fox with ears perked forward, paws poised for the pounce. 

Dean hasn't been one for optimism in a long time, but he thinks they aren't the worst team to come help Sam. They might've had a run for their money with that one Woman of Letters, sure, but they're one for one, right? Dean's not gonna gamble on it, but they might just have providence on their side. 

The address his phone gives him is a two-story farmhouse on the outskirts of town with a mile between it and the next few residences. The farmland's a few good acres, so it isn't hard to find a place a ways out to tuck the Impala into. They make their way into red territory on foot, weighted down with many more arms and knives than strictly necessary. Mary has a preference for sawed-offs. Dean keeps his Colt in hand, feels the metal go warm against his slippery palm. He tightens his grip. 

The moon's a coin at the bottom of a wishing well above their heads, and the cloudless night lends a pretty decent line of sight. Dean makes a wish on the moon and takes point, creeping forward, silent and practised. 

They meet no opposition all the way up to the house. They do a quick perimeter and find it unguarded. The back door is selected as the entry point. 

Dean pads up the back steps, holding his breath. A cool wind stirs his hair. He hears Mary sniff behind him. Cas is utterly silent to the point that Dean has to resist the urge to check if he's still there. Right in front of the door, Dean pauses, hand halfway into his jacket and reaching for his lockpick set. 

He takes a moment to acknowledge all the possibilities, no matter how horrible, how heart-rending, how grisly. It may not be the happy ending he has been foolishly expecting. He has to be prepared to do things that will keep him up for nights to come. 

He is. He'll do it all.

Sam's always been the better lock-picker, but Dean manages it in under three minutes. The knob turns with a barely-there click and the door creaks open. Audible enough to make him and Mary flinch. 

In the end, it happens fast and sure. They are rushed by a man and a woman the moment they enter the back hall. So much for the element of surprise. The fight is in their favor until a blonde woman storms up the cellar steps and fires a shot, barely missing Cas's shoulder. She yells at the other woman, something Dean doesn't bother to catch, but her voice is familiar and distinct. She's the one from the phone. 

Dean sees red in the blue night. He goes straight for her but is blocked by the man. It only takes him a few quick jabs before he's subdued him. The terror in the man's eyes is familiar. Dean ignores it as he fires a shot into the man's skull, the blood on the wallpaper behind him shiny in the moonlight. 

The brown-haired woman is dead on the floor and Mary’s crouching over her with a dark look and darkened, soaked hands. Dean looks around for the blonde vermin only to hear the front door slam shut. 

"I'll go after her," Cas vows, and before Dean can say anything to that, the angel is gone. 

"I don't think I'll ever get used to that," Mary croaks, voice reed-thin. She'd been choked by the other woman, Dean remembers. He doesn't feel any remorse for any of their deaths. 

Unspoken understanding leads them both to the cellar door. Dean gives Mary a single look, so full of so many things that he can't name them all, and he sees them all in Mary's eyes, too. 

He undoes the latch and slowly swings the door open. He peers into the darkness, waiting. 

Nothing. 

He heads down the stairs, keep the railing in his hand with a firm grip. They make a slow, blind descent, heading further into black as they go. Dean feels his skin prickling. There might be another shoe about to drop, another fight to be fought, anything. 

At the bottom of the stairs, he finds a light switch on the wall and takes a breath before flicking it on.

He squints as the bright light assaults his poorly-adjusted eyes. For a brief moment, all he sees is white and faint, indiscernible shapes. It's after his mother sighs out "oh, god" that his brain supplies him with the details.

The cellar is barren and stone. In the center, over a drain, is a simple wooden chair. In that chair, Sam is chained and contained, arms pulled behind her back. Her bare feet are raw, red and black instead of pink. Blood soaks through her jeans in so many places that Dean almost mistakes the color for a darker shade. Her shirt has been ripped and open, her undershirt turned red and brown with blood of varying levels of freshness. The shirt hangs off one shoulder and her bra strap is uncovered , the skin underneath scabbed and shiny. 

Her head hangs, obscuring her face. Her long hair, usually Dean's favorite fascination, is matted and dull, clumped with even more fucking blood. Dean feels his throat go full and resists the urge to vomit. It's far too much blood. There can’t possibly--there can’t possibly be enough blood pumping through Sam’s veins right now.

Dean wishes Mary's first look at her beautiful daughter was different from this. If he thinks on it any longer, his eyes will start to burn.

He takes a step forward. He tries to say her name but only manages a choked-off grunt. "Sammy?" he tries again, his voice a quiet rasp. "Sammy," he breathes, louder, taking another step forward.

Sam stirs as he approaches her. Her head lifts, inch by inch, eyes open to mere slits. She groans, body twitching in a wave of pain.

The oxygen rushes out of Dean's chest as stumbles into Sam's space, putting his hands on either side of her face. "Sammy?" he asks, trying for a smile, just for her. "Hey, Sammy, sorry I'm late."

Sam blinks slowly, adam's apple bobbing. Her mouth falls open and she licks her chapped lips. "You're..." she rasps. 

Dean stops her right there the moment he sees the suspicion cloud her eyes. "M'not dead," he promises, putting a hand lightly on her knee, on the leg that seems in okay condition. Even so, he doesn't touch too firmly. "I'm right here, Sammy. I made it out. I can tell you all about it once we've got you safe and sound."

Sam is quiet for several heartbeats, eyes opening fractionally. She looks him over, up and down, up and down. She focuses on his eyes, taking it all in. Dean lets her look. Hell, he looks back. Even like this, she is a sight for the sorest of eyes. She's still gorgeous, still holding it together. Dean doesn't even know how but he's so fucking grateful for it.

"Promise?" she finally whispers. She shivers.

Dean cups his hands around her jaw, treating her like porcelain, moving closer to plant a closed-mouth kiss to the center of her forehead. He tastes iron and salt there. "I promise," he breathes into her skin, words for her ears only. He pulls back. "I'm okay. And you will be."

Sam nods, licking her lips. She raises her head and opens her mouth to say something else when her eyes flick to the side and focus on something past Dean's shoulder just as a single tear tracks down her cheek. She goes eerily still. 

Dean's chest had been so flooded with relief, with concern, with all he's ever felt for Sam, that for a moment, it felt like it was only him and her in the room. 

Dean steps back. 

Sam blinks again. She shakes her head. "Mom?" she asks, confusion ringing through her tone. Her head tilts to the side. 

Right. "Mom, meet Sam," Dean says. "Mom... she's--she's Sam."

Sam looks at him for the briefest of seconds. Dean tries to say with his eyes that it's okay. Sam looks away again, clearly entranced with the visage of their mom. Dean gets it.

"Hi, sweetie," Mary says, voice cracking. She creeps forward, watching Sam's face for a reaction. "Is that really you?"

Sam nods, moving arthritically. Her eyes are filling up again. Sam bites her wobbling lip. "You... how?"

"Dean tells me it's the grace of god's sister, more or less," Mary laughs, and how musical the sound. "We can talk about that another time, honey. Let's get you home, okay?"

"Okay," Sam echoes, voice so quiet and small. She sounds like a little girl.

Mary curls over Sam and gives her a brief hug. "You know, I've always wanted a daughter," Mary says. "I'm sorry if I ever... I can't wait to get to know you, Sammy."

Sam laughs once, and it's a bit of a broken sound, but it's happy. Dean's chest lightens at the noise. "You too," she says. 

"Let's get you out of here," Dean says, bending down to get the chains off of Sam's ankles. 

The dusty air stirs and Dean looks to his right to see Cas has come back. "I couldn't get her," he says, bowing his head. "I'm sorry."

"Doesn't matter right now," Dean says, though the idea of the woman who did this to Sam being free makes him want to punch the cement walls. "All that matters is getting Sam better."

Once unrestrained, Cas relieves Sam of burdensome, painful consciousness and carries her up the stairs in his arms like an infant. Mary and Dean follow a few steps behind. 

Dean clears his throat and Mary turns her head toward him. "I know it's kind of a lot to take in right now..." Dean starts. "I just. I wanted her to be the one to tell you, not me."

Mary smiles at him, a graceful look that reminds him of saints forgiving sinners. "It's okay, Dean," she says. She wipes at her eyes, smile growing wider. "She's so beautiful."

Dean feels warm all over. "I think you two are gonna like each other," he says, closing the cellar door behind them.

"I hope so," Mary agrees. 

They pack Sam up in the Impala, in the back seat with a blanket spread over her. Mary climbs into the back and gently places Sam's head in her lap, curling her fingers into Sam's hair. 

Dean makes the drive back, this time in pre-dawn blues and pinks instead of deep blacks and navys. The rural roads are an entirely different place at this time of day. The wildlife begins to wake up, the birds singing the morning into being. 

Dean drives with the rising sun at his back, setting everything afire. The drive back home feels shorter than the drive there, and Dean suspects Cas's tricky time manipulations may have a small part to play. 

They make it back as the sun breaks the horizon. 

Sam is placed in her bed; dirt, grime, and blood cleaned off by angelic interference. Dean tends to her other wounds, stitching as precisely as possible and being as gentle as possible with bandages and wraps. 

Sam stirs as Dean finishes bandaging a cut on her forehead. She blinks as Dean comes into focus, smiling wanly once she recognizes him. She relaxes back into the pillow fortress Dean constructed for her. "Hey."

"Hey, kiddo," Dean says, setting the medkit on the night stand. "You alright?"

Dean waits as Sam takes a moment to take stock of her various faculties. She finally nods at him, smile dimming only slightly. "I'm okay," she murmurs, and Dean doesn't call her on it. 

Dean pats her lightly on the thigh. "Good," he says. "You're getting a lot of bed rest, you hear? And chicken soup. Mom apparently has a good recipe." His hand wanders over to Sam's side and he takes her hand in his.

Sam perks up at Mary's mention. "She's still here?" she asks. She squeezes his hand.

"Where else would she be?" He squeezes back.

Sam chuckles quietly. "Thought I... hallucinated her," she says, mouth splitting into a wide yawn.

Dean grins back at Sam. "Nope," he says. "You're safe 'n' sound, and me and Mom are gonna take care of you. Get some rest, Sammy."

Sam mumbles something that Dean doesn't quite catch. She snuggles further down in the blankets, closing her eyes. 

"What was that?" Dean asks.

"Said there's gonna be..." Sam pauses to yawn again. "Two mother hens now."

Dean scoffs. "Dick," he accuses, though there's no heat behind his words. 

There's a knock at the door and Sam opens one eye. Dean turns around, hand falling out of Sam's grasp, and Mary slips through, settling on the bed on Sam's other side. She puts a hand on Sam's shoulder and uses her other hand to brush stray locks of hair away from Sam's face, tucking them behind Sam's ear. "Just wanted to check up on you," she says.

Sam gives her a slow smile, and Dean marvels at how perfectly mirrored their expressions are. The resemblance is uncanny. On Estrogen, Sam went from getting most of her looks from John to the delicate cheekbones and jawline of Mary. She's a perfect blend of the two, and Dean knows Mary can see it, too.

"I'm okay," Sam tells her.

"Okay," Mary echoes, her hand running down Sam's shoulder and across her arm. "You promise to get some sleep?"

"I already promised Dean," Sam says, and her voice is slightly more slurred than before. At this point, they're probably keeping her up more than they're helping her.

Mary understands it too. She gets up, and Dean follows suit. He draws the blanket further up Sam's body, making sure she's warm and safe. 

Sam's eyes flutter closed again and Mary and Dean leave the room together. Dean flicks off the light in Sam's room and leaves the door cracked open, the thin splinter of light spilling over Sam's midsection. 

In the hallway, Mary turns to him. "Thank you," she says.

Dean stops. "For what?"

"For being there for her when I wasn't," she says softly. "You take wonderful care of your sister. It... it makes me feel like it hasn't all been bad. You two had each other, and it's done you both good. You're lucky to have each other the way you do."

For the briefest of seconds Dean wonders if she means something more than what she's saying, if she saw the private parts of them in the way Dean touched Sam and spoke to her when they rescued her, but he dismisses it. "No need to thank me," Dean says. "I'll always look after Sammy."

"I know you will," Mary agrees. "And I will, too. Neither of my children will be hurt under my watch."

Dean takes one final look into Sam's room and sees her sleeping peacefully. He looks at Mary, seeing the familiar stubborn determination glint in her eye.

He knows she's telling the truth, and he feels a sense of security for him and Sam that he's never felt before. 

It's time for him to get some rest, too. He can get a few hours of shuteye in the chair by Sam's bed.

And in the morning, they'll wake up beside each other, safe and sound.

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came to me outta nowhere at 3 A.M. last week, and I didn't have the time or proper mental health then to write it, but I do now. I'm very happy I did and I like how it turned out. I hope you guys did too <3 Trans Sam is so important to me.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, it honestly means a whole. Feel free to leave comments/kudos if you like, they are love <3 [big hug]
> 
> Hopefully I'll be able to write more stuff like this in the future! Thanks again.


End file.
